


The "Run It Through Hot Water" Technique

by honeybakedgrace



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Exposure therapy, M/M, Thighs, showering together, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:01:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23553466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/honeybakedgrace/pseuds/honeybakedgrace
Summary: Once or twice— occasionally three times— a week Kiyoomi Sakusa makes his pilgrimage across Tokyo to his newly formed place of worship.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 25
Kudos: 622
Collections: SakuAtsu Week 2020





	The "Run It Through Hot Water" Technique

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pseudoanalytics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudoanalytics/gifts), [astroeulogy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/astroeulogy/gifts).



> It's bittersweet, but this is my very last work for SakuAtsu Week 2020, using the Day 7, Tier 1 prompt: Safe/Home
> 
> If I could have the time or patience to dedicate this work to an entire discord server... I would. Any of you hooligans reading this, thank you for the motivation, inspiration, and validation!
> 
> Mind the tags, this is an E rated fic. Hope you all enjoy!

Teaching others how to love him was something Atsumu _should_ be more than adept at, but to no one’s surprise, he had squandered years of precious time digging the lead-heavy soles of his shoes as deeply into the dirt as he was able. Osamu would jeer that with how he continued to dig his feet into the ground and bury his head into the sand, Atsumu spent too damn many of his waking hours ass up and blind. Osamu meant it, but he said and meant a lot of things that never mattered in the grand scheme of life. When Osamu could spot the freckles of sorrow and agony seeding themselves into the wrinkle between Atsumu’s thick brows one heartbreak at a time, he thought it was a lucky guess. But by the time Atsumu was 23 without ever touching anything that could reasonably be considered a relationship, Osamu thought himself a prophet. 

Osamu watched his brother flirt and fawn helplessly over men who were far out of their own depth— anyone who just met Atsumu would be. Osamu assumed that with age and imparted wisdom Atsumu would adjust, but with all that time, he did the only thing he had ever known, dig deeper. 

As stubborn as he was unlikable, Atsumu always swung for the fences. Since none of his advances ever got anywhere noteworthy, he never considered what he might incur winding up for a shot with that much power behind it. 

When Sakusa Kiyoomi— inebriated beyond belief— sunk his long, thick fingers into the back of Atsumu’s neck in order to kiss him so silly it made him double over in nausea, Atsumu could only reel from the kickback. 

It was a hell of a confession, a kiss like that. Frenzied and fitful, to Atsumu it felt like Kiyoomi was breaking a fever against his lips. Still riding out a giddy buzz, Atsumu smiled stupidly against Kiyoomi’s mouth, causing him to jolt back with realization. 

The fog of intoxication escaped out through Kiyoomi’s ears with the realization that Atsumu was grinning, teeth and all, an inch away from his face. 

“Omi ya have some soft lips y’know,” Atsumu admitted before dissolving into a peal of laughter. “And yer using em to kiss me,” with pupils lazily unfocused, he looked up through half-mast lids with a brainlessly elated grin. “How’d I get so damn lucky?” 

That confession and temporary lapse in judgment on both accounts led to Kiyoomi soaking wet and shivering on Atsumu’s doorstep. More notably to Atsumu, Kiyoomi was barely wearing a thing—no mask, no gloves, just a thin sweater and pajama pants under a black raincoat. 

“Miya,” peering out from behind inky black lashes clumped thickly with rain, Kiyoomi whispered the name like it was a secret. 

“Omi, how didja get here? What time is it?” 

“I took the train,” He admitted.

Like how it always was with Atsumu, Kiyoomi didn’t recognize how out of depth he was until he was already drowning. He brought his hands up from his side, palms open and facing upwards. In his muddled brain, he knew that he wouldn't be able to _see_ the phantom itch creeping down from the crown of his head to the tips of his fingers and toes, but it didn’t stop him from looking anyway. All the sound logic in the world couldn’t parse a valid argument against him in this state. Kiyoomi frantically searched his memory to remember if he touched his face—he never did, but that didn’t stop his wandering mind. 

“Omi-kun?” Atsumu’s voice was miles away, distant and muffled. Nonetheless, the attempt to get Kiyoomi’s attention earned Atsumu acknowledgment. Kiyoomi’s onyx eyes flitted up to meet honey ones, his pupils vibrating in the onset of rising panic. “Les get ya cleaned up, huh?” Atsumu motioned Kiyoomi in, and the second he stepped onto the small mat just inside, Atsumu shut and locked the door behind him. 

“Jus’ stay here okay?” Kiyoomi didn’t bother to respond, just stood with arms extended like a zombie. Atsumu raced to the kitchen, rummaging around in his drawers to find the carton of plastic gloves ‘Samu had left behind for when he inevitably came over to force a home-cooked meal onto his brother. He triumphantly plucked a cardboard box from a drawer and ripped it open to snag two plastic gloves. He slid them over his nervous hands before sprinting back to the front door, breathing a heavy sigh of relief to see Kiyoomi still standing there, now shoeless. 

“Les get ya all clean, Omi,” Atsumu whispered, taking Kiyoomi by the elbow towards the shower. 

Once there, he deposited the stock-still giant into the bathroom and went to close the door behind him before a gray-socked foot inserted itself in between the door and its jamb. Atsumu glanced up through blonde, bed-shaken fringe to see Kiyoomi with his bottom lip between his teeth and a dark expression in his eyes. 

“Can you…” Kiyoomi inhaled, “ _will you_ … help me take it all off?” 

“Are-are ya sure about that, Omi-kun?” Kiyoomi closed his eyes tightly, wishing he'd dreamt up the bravery that left him stranded on Miya Atsumu's doorstep, but finding no such mercy. 

“If I had any other choice, _any_ other choice I’d take it,” Kiyoomi warned through gritted teeth.

Atsumu wordlessly approached him, hands still gloved. He guided Kiyoomi’s arms above his head so that he could take his shirt by the hem and shimmy it off. Kiyoomi was only slightly numb to the shame as Atsumu’s hand grazed his abdomen, his mind far too preoccupied to care about modesty at a time like this. 

Kiyoomi’s exposed skin was speckled with moles of all shapes and sizes, which Atsumu had known, but never gotten to see in the dim light of his own bathroom. He resisted the urge to etch constellations within the galaxy of moles spotting Kiyoomi’s skin from head to toe. It was his wildest fantasy to drag the flat of his starving tongue along each and every one until he’d traversed Kiyoomi’s entire universe. 

But now seemed like a pretty poor time for fantasies. 

Atsumu reached for Kiyoomi’s pants before casting a glance up for permission. Kiyoomi nodded feebly, teeth still sunk into his abused bottom lip. Atsumu kept his eyes trained to the ceiling as he yanked the pants, and underwear beneath, down in one tug. Even though he saw _it_ in his periphery, Atsumu refused to make eye contact and instead opted to slide past Omi to flip on the shower. 

“Can you...can you wipe it down _please_.” The softness of the request made Atsumu nauseous, but he still managed an even toned,

“Ya fer sure.” Atsumu fetched a bottle of sanitary wipes from beneath the sink and went to work, methodically wiping the bath from top to bottom before turning on the water as warm as it would go. While waiting for the bathroom to fill completely with heavy steam, he guided Kiyoomi to the edge of the bath. 

“Where d’ya want me?”

“Just…” Kiyoomi exhaled again, the air whistling between his teeth, “stay.” Atsumu nodded as Kiyoomi, still wearing his socks, stepped into the boiling water. Atsumu slid the curtain shut, which Kiyoomi did not protest. 

Atsumu could hear the heavy panting from inside, not daring to utter a word until it subsided. 

“Omi,” he braved, voice almost too quiet to hear. Atsumu thought it might have actually been too quiet until Kiyoomi grunted, meaning _what do you want_? “Why didja come here? In tha middle of tha night in yer pajamas?” 

“I…I don’t know. I just had to see you.” 

“What fer?” 

“I… I want to know things,” Atsumu’s breath hitched in his throat, “I want,” _gulp_ , “to know what it’s like.” 

“What what’s like?” 

“Are you going to make me say it?” Kiyoomi snapped meanly, the sting of it hot on Atsumu’s cheeks. 

“Ya.” Another pause. 

“I want to know what it’s like to be with someone.”

Atsumu nearly choked on the confession, having to clap a hand over his mouth to suppress the strangled sound escaping his throat.

“It's not that I _don't_ , it's just that I've never— " Kiyoomi inhales weakly, "I can’t imagine anyone would put up with me… I haven’t experienced many things. But if that person has some sort of attraction…” he trailed off pensively, then, “you are an asshole you know that?” 

“What? I didn’t even say anythin’!” 

“Exactly,” Kiyoomi hissed, “ _why_?” 

“Maybe I just like hearin’ ya talk. Didn't ya say somethin’ bout attraction?” Atsumu crossed the bathroom to pull a head-sized crack in the shower curtain. “Omi.” 

Kiyoomi turned his neck to scowl at the disembodied head peering in. 

“Omi,” Atsumu couldn’t mask the sweetness threaded into the offer, “I can show ya anythin’ ya want ta see.” 

And so, it became their practice: Kiyoomi coming to Atsumu’s apartment to see, to touch, to feel. Kiyoomi began to discover his desired pleasures from within the glass box that Atsumu so delicately pressed his fingers up to. 

For a few weeks, Kiyoomi let Atsumu take the reins, which usually ended with them lying on their sides a few feet from each other, braving tentative and explorative touches from an arms-length away. Frustratingly, Kiyoomi appreciated Atsumu’s hesitancy, but he wished that he could sense the raw desire simmering just below his surface. It took Kiyoomi 3 weeks of begging Atsumu with nothing more than a wrinkle in his brow, 3 weeks of wishing he would take him like Kiyoomi _knew_ he wanted to. 

Finally, the vexation of being so close to satisfaction burned his reservations to whispers of ash. Wordlessly, he sat on the couch, guiding Atsumu by the hips onto his lap, legs spread brazenly open against Kiyoomi’s abdomen. Kiyoomi, filled to the brim with boldness, dared to slip his hands up under Atsumu’s shorts, hiking them up until he could pinch the slightly bunched skin where legs meet hips between his greedy fingers. Head pushed into Atsumu’s chest, Kiyoomi closed his eyes, letting his hands work their way around Atsumu’s lower half. Kiyoomi pressed his long, bony index fingers flat into the ribbons of muscle running vertically inwards towards Atsumu’s groin. He dug the cleanly cut edges of his fingernails into the meat of Atsumu’s ass. Each touch was so deliberate and intentional it made Atsumu’s chest seize with affection and his arms collapse limply over Kiyoomi’s back. 

Of the few things Kiyoomi genuinely enjoyed, Atsumu’s thighs were miles above the rest. He was so in love with the map of the setter’s broad thighs, the way that they pinned him safely to the couch, sturdy enough to cling to them for stability in his unsteady state. Kiyoomi also loved that even with his half-baked arousal pressed firmly into Kiyoomi’s stomach, Atsumu stayed utterly still for him. 

Up until that point, Atsumu was certain he was losing Omi to inexperience. While it was far from his first time, Atsumu never _cared_ for someone quite like Kiyoomi. Vulnerability bred insecurity, and Atsumu was left to wonder if his own selfishness was the reason no one ever stayed a second night... if they even made it through the first. Atsumu first assumed Kiyoomi wanted to be taught, as if he was an untouched canvas waiting to be washed in brilliant color. But after that night, Kiyoomi’s hands splayed over his thighs rapt with want, Atsumu understood that Kiyoomi was filled tip to toe with his own unexpressed desires. Instead of a blank slate, he was more like an undone puzzle. Until Atsumu, he had no one to set his pieces in place. When he wrapped his eager fingers hungrily around the trunks of Atsumu’s legs, Kiyoomi had never felt less scattered. Even if the hesitancy still remained, they were more than on their way to _something_. 

Much to Atsumu's surprise, one of the most successful activities he suggested to try and desensitize Kiyoomi’s hairline trigger, was a bath. Atsumu fondly referred to it as the “run it through hot water” technique, cause getting Kiyoomi used to touch in a bath was not unlike breaking in a new pair of shoes under the faucet of a sink. Once both of them had showered and the bathtub had been scrubbed well beyond sterile, Atsumu would tie the shower curtain up to the rod, and fill his yellowing tub with pleasantly warm water. Sometimes Kiyoomi brought bubbles, other times he only desired for Atsumu to wrap his legs around his torso in a wash of tepid water, to lean back against the tub and let Atsumu kiss him stupid and giddy. 

Now, once or twice— occasionally three times— a week Kiyoomi Sakusa makes his pilgrimage across Tokyo to his newly formed place of worship. 

For Kiyoomi, the inside of Atsumu’s studio apartment feels like a chapel, every time he enters all he can think is that it is only right to enter in hushed reverence. Each time he wordlessly crosses the altar of Atsumu’s doorway he sends up a little prayer to whoever is listening. It never contains words, just a wish, a longing. For what, he never knows, but it doesn’t stop him from yearning for it to come true. While most people would consider what happens in their precious hours together far from a holy communion, for them it’s a sacrament. 

The more time they spend together the more Kiyoomi is convinced that the world outside is the tainted one. Never in his life has he felt so clean as when he is standing in the billowing steam of Atsumu’s shower, Atsumu’s calloused hands kneading tangerine scented shampoo through Kiyoomi's wiry curls. Here he lives in a slippery, sudsy daydream where their mouths meet to the tune of sizzling foam dissolving between locked lips.

Kiyoomi leans down to steal a wet kiss, the balmy air exchanged between them filling their lungs with sweet warmth. The setter runs a sudsy thumb tenderly along Kiyoomi’s cheek, leaving a faintly bubbling trail of soap behind in its wake. Kiyoomi hums in response, a low, gravelly purr reserved for sacred ears only. It isn’t the prettiest sound, but it is so unabashedly honest.

Kiyoomi doesn’t care about how he sounds. Truthfully, he is so rapt with tending to each of the other overwhelming sensations flooding his senses he can’t even hear it as it leaves his throat. The methodically traveled circular path of Atsumu’s thumb carefully outlining the knotty bone at the base of Kiyoomi’s skull. The trickle of tepid water slipping between their tangled mouths and down their chins. The sensation of the striations in Atsumu’s abdomen flexing under his gingerly placed open palm. It is entirely too much and not enough. 

_More, more, more_.

Atsumu breaks the mounting tension with a weak giggle. 

“Easy there Omi-kun,” Atsumu warns in a low, breathy tone. He moves a hand from Kiyoomi’s face to his chest. Kiyoomi leans beyond the barrier to position his lips dangerously close to the underside of Atsumu’s jaw. He drags his teeth along the sweet spot. 

“What’s so bad about this?” Kiyoomi muses in a murmur. Without pausing for a response, he nips at Atsumu’s exposed neck, sucking until he’s etched a purpling bruise in the shape of his open mouth. 

“Omi-ah!” Had it been anyone else, Atsumu would have let them suck the soul from his body through his tender neck. But this is Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi is still constantly balancing on the razor’s edge of making promises his body knows he’ll never keep. He would leave Atsumu, teeth clacking and bones burning under rigid muscles. He wouldn’t coax him into release, not now— maybe not ever. Especially not against the unsanitized walls of his aging shower.

“Omi,” Atsumu huffs against Kiyoomi’s cheek, the corners of his mouth brushing the pale skin pressed up against his jaw. “Please don’t start somethin’ ya can’t finish, I really might die if ya do.” 

It’s cruel of him to say, Kiyoomi thinks, it would be nearly unforgivable if he weren’t right. With a discontented exhale through his teeth, Kiyoomi stands up, letting Atsumu put him at arms-length. Atsumu coils his fingers into his soapy ringlets and yanks his head back under the spray. His rough handling drags a grunt of irritation from Kiyoomi's chest, but no protest. 

Being Kiyoomi’s personal on-demand exposure therapy is a practice in patience, something Atsumu never dreamed himself being an expert at. Kiyoomi’s half commitment, craving touch but fearing the strings that tangle in with it, is Atsumu’s burden. Having Kiyoomi absolutely starving at the end of his lips is exciting until he remembers how little he actually eats. 

Once his hair is rinsed clean, Atsumu reaches past him, barely pressing their slick chests together to do so. He snags the comically tiny bottle of face scrub, another reminder of Kiyoomi’s one-foot-in, one-foot-out mentality that makes Atsumu sick with both affection and insecurity. A bottle just big enough to show his existence within the apartment, but small enough to suggest it’s only temporary. 

Atsumu squirts a pea-sized amount onto his open palm— a practice that Kiyoomi had trained into Atsumu through smacks upside the head. He insisted that a product so expensive only needed such a minute amount; Atsumu grumbled that no one should be spending such inordinate sums of money on a face scrub. Regardless, Atsumu far prefers washing Omi's face to not washing Omi's face, so he obliges. 

Atsumu rubs circles of grainy wash into Kiyoomi's bony cheekbones, cupping his palms around his jaw to scrape it gently across the bridge of his nose with both thumbs. 

“Yer gonna get microabrasions on yer skin if ya keep using this crap,” Atsumu mumbles. 

“Where did you learn the word _microabrasion_?” Kiyoomi queries, a whisper of a frown forming in the center of his forehead. 

“...Twitter,” Atsumu admits with indignation. Kiyoomi scoffs. 

“That’s what I thought, besides,” the frown takes full form on his face as Kiyoomi mutters in a low tone, “we both know I don’t do this for skincare purposes.” Atsumu does know. Unhealthy or not, Kiyoomi needs a few layers of his skin peeled back every day to even feel comfortable existing. 

After he’s coated every peak and valley of Kiyoomi’s sour face, Atsumu guides him back under the water to rinse it off. 

“There, happy now?” Kiyoomi nods shortly, indicating that it’s time to begin the next step in the elaborate series of procedures required to make Atsumu’s bathtub a worthy place for exploration. 

Atsumu grabs the disinfectant from the counter. He hands a wipe to Kiyoomi and takes one for himself and the pair get to work cleansing the entire shower, similar to how Atsumu had nearly 3 months ago. 

“Atsumu,” the low tone of his voice makes the hair on the back of Atsumu's neck stand at attention—Kiyoomi only uses his first name when he's feeling especially bold. 

“Hmm?” 

“Gloves?” 

“I have a fresh pack under tha sink.” Kiyoomi steps out of the shower to fetch them himself as Atsumu finishes cleansing the tub, using the showerhead to rinse free the remaining suds. Kiyoomi hands him a pair of gloves and bends past him to plug the drain, smacking down the knob on the bath faucet to start the flow. 

Kiyoomi plops down cross-legged against the back of the tub. Atsumu turns his back to him to reorganize the displaced contents of his shower caddy. At this level, Kiyoomi is eye to eye with Atsumu’s backside. At this proximity, Kiyoomi can inspect the fine details, like the splash of freckles over his flank and the thin scar curling across the curve of his ass. In particular, he settles his gaze onto the identical dimples on either side of Atsumu’s spine, perfectly finger-sized. Kiyoomi gingerly places his thumbs within the craters. 

Atsumu flinches slightly at the touch, but stills, not yet returning to his task to focus his senses entirely into the few inches of skin occupied by the soft pads of Kiyoomi’s fingers.

In their time together, Atsumu allows Kiyoomi to explore at his own pace, which means if he feels the desire to sit with his thumbs inside the small hollows in Atsumu’s lower back, he’s allowed to do so as long as he wishes. It never stops Atsumu from complaining about it, but Kiyoomi knows it’s all bark and no bite. There’s no sharp edge to his blunt knife, only the sickeningly tender sting of a man trying not to look as vulnerable as he feels.

Kiyoomi lifts his thumbs free and settles back against the edge of the tub, patiently letting the water rise around him. Once Atsumu is through organizing, he shuts off the water flow and stands above him, waiting for guidance. 

Kiyoomi firmly plants his gloved hands on either side of Atsumu’s broad hips, drawing him down into his open lap. Atsumu plants his knees on either side for stability, placing his hands above Kiyoomi’s head. 

Where there is usually hesitancy, Kiyoomi wastes no time in going where he wants. He wraps his arms around Atsumu’s backside, reaching to imprint his leaden fingers into the tender skin between Atsumu’s thighs. Atsumu is still wound so tight from earlier he’s certain he’ll snap, so instead he buries his forehead into Kiyoomi’s meaty shoulder, heaving deep, controlled exhales against his chest. Kiyoomi embeds his fingers there, hoping to leave fingertip-sized bruises upon his fondest parts like he's folding in the page corners on his favorite book.

Feeling as reckless as he can be with the millimeters thin barrier of latex at his disposal, Kiyoomi drags a dripping finger from Atsumu’s inner thigh up the curve of his ass, just a hair too far inward, so that his finger moves up inside. Using one hand, Kiyoomi spreads Atsumu open between his index and middle fingers, where Atsumu can feel a balmy draft of residual steam brushing against his untouched entrance. With his other hand, Kiyoomi swipes the wet and gloved pad of his index finger over his rim. 

Atsumu squirms slightly at the contact, unable to fight the knee-jerk reaction to having that touch-starved place suddenly feel contact. 

Kiyoomi hesitates, holding a small breath behind his teeth as he applies pressure. Though Atsumu remains still— rigid and shaking, but still— his entrance twitches, allowing the tip of Kiyoomi’s finger to slide inside.

Atsumu can’t suppress the guttural groan that vibrates his chest. The moan only grows deeper as Kiyoomi sinks his finger in to the hilt, curling gently into the rings of muscle flexing against his touch 

“You like that?” Kiyoomi breathes quietly, staying there only to hear such a beautiful sound again and again and again. 

“I don’t hafta. I like plenty-a other things too y’know,” Atsumu burbles. 

“Like what?” 

“I dunno, touch whatever ya want you don’t hafta touch there if ya don’t wanna,” he insists, burying his burning face into Kiyoomi’s neck. 

Kiyoomi retrieves his hands from behind and runs a feather-light fingertip up the side of Atsumu’s feverishly twitching cock instead.

“Oh,” Atsumu breathes shakily, “ya gotta be kiddin’—" the words are ripped from his open mouth as Kiyoomi wraps his gloved palm around Atsumu’s length, flooding it in a cocoon of euphoric warmth. Atsumu involuntarily moans, _loudly_ , into Kiyoomi’s ear, but he can barely register the reverberating sound racking its way through Atsumu’s body over the blood pounding in his own ears. Kiyoomi grips his throbbing dick, dragging his thumb lightly over Atsumu’s leaking slit to gently smear a dribble of precum back down the shaft. Atsumu cries out in a pathetic whimper, but he stays unmoving for him. After a moment of pensive thought, Kiyoomi thinks aloud, 

“Do it.” It’s all Atsumu can do to prop up his head and rest his forehead on Kiyoomi’s. 

“I… _fuck_ ,” Atsumu groans, bringing his hands up on either side of the tub to brace himself. “I… I can’t Omi,” Atsumu breathes, “Ya— ah! I know ya won’t like it, and I don’t have any rubbers,” he insists. 

“How do you know what I like?” 

“Jesus Christ Omi, ya don’t even put syrup on yer pancakes cause ya hate tha texture and the mess,” Atsumu declares in frustration, killing himself for once in his life caring about someone else before his own desperate _need_. “Ya won’t like it, and I-I couldn’t take it if ya left! I’d rather go unsatisfied until I die than hafta give you up!” Atsumu babbles, trying to force the words out of his mouth before they get lost in his scrambled brain. 

_Unsatisfied_. 

With a single word Atsumu excavates the root of all the desires Kiyoomi holds so deep within. All he’s ever wanted is to satisfy Miya Atsumu.

Emboldened with courage, Kiyoomi brings his nimble fingers into a tight fist around Atsumu’s cock, pumping it with ferocity. Atsumu blinks back starbursts of hot white light from the whiplash of pleasure earned from the agonizing friction.

Kiyoomi casts his gaze up to Atsumu’s euphoric expression, feeling his own half-mast cock twitch to life at the sight. All of the audio memories tucked away in Kiyoomi’s brain of Atsumu quickly and carelessly relieving himself behind a closed bathroom door while Kiyoomi changed, the muffled but pained grunts of Atsumu so sloppily bringing himself over the edge could only make Kiyoomi smugly think that he could do it _so_ much better. 

Hearing the fervent and delirious whimpers as Atsumu leaks within his grip, Kiyoomi can only smugly think that he was _so_ right. Atsumu finally surrenders and fucks up roughly into Kiyoomi’s grip, head thrown back to the heavens. His chest pushed out and naked, Kiyoomi succumbs to the urge and begins tentatively laying kitten licks onto Atsumu’s stiff nipple, causing the setter to hiccup in surprise. 

“Omi—”

Atsumu can barely get a word in before Kiyoomi takes the tip of it between his teeth, tugging gently under the encouragement of Atsumu’s whines of pleasure. 

“Omi, I’m gonna— I’m… I’m gonna,” Kiyoomi pulls back to watch in awe the twisting image of Atsumu’s face overtaken by bliss, his mouth slightly agape at the visage. 

Atsumu tries to cup one of his hands under the tip to redirect the spray towards himself, but in a frenzy to do so only manages to just slightly tip the angle of his cock up so that instead of spilling onto Kiyoomi’s chest, Atsumu paints a Jackson Pollock over Kiyoomi’s stunned face.

In his utterly boneless and post-orgasmic state, Atsumu trembles to keep himself sat upright. 

“Omi-kun I didn’t mean ta I swear I tried ta warn ya,” Atsumu’s chest seizes with a strange wild tightness he’s never known before. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry Omi it was an accident, I didn’t—”

Atsumu quickly and clumsily stumbles to his feet, twisting his torso around to pull the plug on the bath and start the shower. He strains to drag Kiyoomi to his feet, who is still speechless. Kiyoomi moves with languid grace, slow-moving but not shivering and shaking like Atsumu. Atsumu positions him under the water, bringing his feeble fingers up to wipe away the sticky fluid that has begun to drip down in strings. Over and over again Atsumu curses and muddles through colorful apologies. 

Kiyoomi shuts his eyes and leans into the contact, chasing the textured touch of Atsumu’s calloused fingertips. Atsumu brings something foamy to his cheeks, something that smells like mint and musk. Once he’s sufficiently washed, Atsumu cups water into his hands to rinse the suds away. 

As he brings the latex-clad pad of his thumb along Kiyoomi’s chin, Kiyoomi lets his bottom lip drop, dipping his chin forward to take the gloved digit to the first knuckle. Atsumu yelps in shock as Kiyoomi flicks open his eyes to stare innocently at him. Like a cat got the cream, Kiyoomi takes it further in, guiding his tongue softly along the underside of Atsumu’s thumb. Kiyoomi reaches up to remove the thumb and replaces it with Atsumu’s index and middle finger. 

Kiyoomi takes the two fingers to the hilt, tilting his chin up so that Atsumu’s heavy fingers press against the flat of his tongue. With an unholy symphony of noises, he sucks and nips along each knuckle, pulling his head back as he goes. In one final _pop_ , Kiyoomi draws his head fully back, letting Atsumu’s fingers fall limp. 

Atsumu’s mouth, agape in awe, curls into a foolishly cloying grin as he cups his hand under Kiyoomi’s jaw tenderly. 

“Oh, Omi-kun what am I gonna do with you?”

...

Once clean and changed, Atsumu wanders into the kitchen to scrounge around for food, settling for heating a stale cup of coffee in the microwave.

At this point Kiyoomi typically leaves, but in another surprising turn of events, he crawls onto a barstool, leaning in towards Atsumu like he’s got a secret. 

“Do…” Kiyoomi hesitates, resisting the amused smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth at the mere thought, “do you think you’d let me suck you off next time?” 

With a sudden gasp, Atsumu inhales his sip of coffee. In a few violent hacks the boiling liquid is expelled from his lungs, allowing him only enough breath to croak the words, “Where didja learn that phrase?” 

“I’m not a primary schooler,” a cocksure grin slides across Kiyoomi’s face as he watches Atsumu sputter and bark up coffee. 

“Omi… Omi-kun,” Atsumu gasps, “ya can do whatever ya want! If ya wanna brain me over tha head with a fryin’ pan ya can, I’m sure thatta be less painful than… than this!” Atsumu makes a wide gesture that signifies _all of you_. “If ya wanna suck it so hard it falls off I don’t care! I really don’t care!” Atsumu claps his palms onto either side of Kiyoomi’s face, squeezing his cheeks together until Kiyoomi is just a mess of squished skin with a frown. “I jus’ don’t wantcha ta go, Omi.” Kiyoomi tries to mumble something, but with his lips folded in half, it’s lost on Atsumu’s ears. Kiyoomi brings his hands up to curl around Atsumu’s wrists, tugging them apart to free his mouth. 

“Is this your lame attempt to ask me to stay the night?” Kiyoomi asks seriously, eyes narrowed half shut. He releases Atsumu’s wrists and twists his torso to reach out and retrieve his coat from where it rests on the barstool.

“You...didja wanna stay the night?!” Atsumu finally shouts, causing Kiyoomi to halt with the front door already cracked half-open. 

“No.”

“No? You just—”

“I need to get some more… permanent things. Change of clothes—”

“A toothbrush?” Atsumu breathes, unable to mask the wistful hope curling itself into a question mark at the end of the phrase. Kiyoomi glances back with a prominent wrinkle nesting between brows. 

“I was gonna say condoms, but yeah, that too.” Kiyoomi dips his head to exit, shutting the door behind him with a gentle _thump_.

Atsumu, dazed and exhausted, leans his elbows onto the kitchen counter for balance. He can’t decide if Kiyoomi is adding on or stealing years from his life, but he thinks that maybe he wants him to be there for every single one.

**Author's Note:**

> This feels like a good way to close out SakuAtsu week! I am so proud of this work in particular, and I am floored by the growth I've made in preparation for this week.
> 
> Sorry for the rambles to come but I just HAVE to express my appreciation for the two people this fic is dedicated to...
> 
> This fic is firstly dedicated to Quip for doing the beta read on this and because I know this concept of Sakusa using Atsumu as exposure therapy is very dear to them (and me of course). They have also been hugely supportive during this entire process ;__;. I also wanted to dedicate this to Bree who has been a huge motivator and inspiration for my writing and is probably at least half the reason why I've grown so much over the last 3 weeks of composing my SakuAtsu Week content. She continually urges me to be more confident in my own work and god knows I need it sometimes. Both of them have been very instrumental in this piece (my favorite piece) coming to fruition, so I wanted to dedicate this to them for all their support! Thank you both so much! 
> 
> Once again I encourage everyone to explore the collection here in ao3 and the tag (#SakuAtsuWeek) on twitter to check out some of the incredible content that has been produced! 
> 
> This is definitely only the beginning of my SakuAtsu content, and I can't wait to share everything else I have planned for the future!
> 
> -Grace :)
> 
> Ps if you wanna scream with me about this (and are over 18) I am @honeybakedyams on twitter!


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